10. DO BANK TELLERS DREAM OF EXPLODING ATMS
DO BANK TELLERS DREAM OF EXPLODING ATMS
Isela used to dream of becoming a famous clairvoyant or a botanist who could communicate with plant life.
Instead, she’s a monotonous machine. Transaction after transaction.
Click a few buttons on the keyboard to withdraw or deposit in service of men and women who had way more money than her.
She smiled to herself when she fantasized about being robbed by masked gunmen.
Her life could be a movie if she were robbed at gunpoint.
She fantasized about someone slitting her throat for a couple thousand dollars.
She loved the idea of being a headline. She envisioned finally quitting and then spitting on the face of her creepy co-worker who was much too handsy and smelled like cheap cologne.
On the weekends, Isela cleaned an office building with two other women.
Zofia and Naomi. Zofia was in her sixties, from Poland.
She was strict, she was blunt, she loved her cigarettes.
Naomi was in her twenties, she had family in Guatemala who depended on her.
She was quiet, punctual, and she enjoyed listening to Spanish pop on her boombox which she brought along with her for every shift.
It was within the confines of this office building that Isela could be nosy.
She rummaged through sticky notes and shredded paper bins that were left unlocked.
She found copies of death certificates, emails, house appraisals, and read each one like a tabloid.
She took chocolates and pens from desks and pocketed them for later.
It was one of the simple pleasures of cleaning an entire floor by herself.
After her morning bath, Isela oils herself with coconut and spritzes her favorite perfume.
She sprays a cloud with top notes of yuzu and pomegranate, middle notes of peony, magnolia and lotus, and base notes of musk, mahogany, and amber.
She stands in front of the mirror in the nude and looks at her stretch marks shining under the lights.
Reminders of regret. Reminders that she could have had a different life.
She stares at her breasts and pinches at her nipples to harden them up.
She stands tall and then proceeds to do her makeup.
A light sepia eyeshadow for her eyelids, a red lip, and small brown wings on the corners of her eyes, and a tiny hint of blush.
After her makeup routine, she selects a black and white outfit for the bank.
She picks a white button up blouse with bell sleeves and a black pencil skirt with beige nylons underneath.
She slides into her house slippers as her pumps are at the front door.
After she’s dressed, she probes through Olivia’s backpack, searching for a new journal or a hidden diary or a secret note she’s not supposed to have.
Inside, there are library books, a math notebook, and a sketchbook filled with drawings of birds and doodles.
She sees her homework marked with smiley faces, there’s one C, but Isela doesn’t care about grades.
She wakes Olivia up at 6:45 and times her in the bathroom. She has fifteen minutes to relieve herself, shower, brush her teeth, get dressed, and brush her hair. Olivia comes out with her hair in a side ponytail and star barrettes scattered on top of her head. Isela eyes the rest of her outfit.
You don’t match. Go change your shirt. It washes out the color in your face. Why are your lips chapped? Go fix it. Take those stars off of your head. You have five minutes. Hurry up. I don’t feel like waiting for you.
Isela watches the time and eyes Olivia who comes out with her hair no longer in a ponytail, but a brushed-out puff of hair.
Is that how you want to look for school?
Olivia shrugs and this pierces Isela with a sharp and annoying pain in her throat and belly.
She wants to give into impulse and slap her daughter.
Even a flick on her forehead would do. She curls her hands into fists.
She opens them and shakes them out. She grips Olivia by the hair and drags her into the bathroom.
Little girls should have neat hair, Olivia. Neat hair. Neat clothes. I buy you all these things and you act like you don’t even care.
Isela brushes Olivia’s hair into a high bun and douses her head with hairspray, she combs it back neatly with no regard to how hard she’s pulling.
Olivia’s crying is obvious as her face turns bright red every time. Isela ignores the tears and notices the buttons on her own blouse are mismatched. Olivia runs out and catches the bus by the time Isela fixes her shirt. She walks into the kitchen and sees Olivia has left her lunch behind.
That’s what I get for thinking I could bring a grateful child into this world.